Appearances, Desire, and Crafty Djinn
by Seshata
Summary: The gorgeous Jane Farrar was waiting outside Nathaniel's door, but he couldn't let her see him like this. This was all Bartimaeus's fault. The djinni had NEVER been able to make a good sandwich...
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Notes: This takes place at around the beginning of Ptolemy's Gate, so I refer to Nathaniel exclusively as John Mandrake. At the beginning of each chapter/section I will indicate who will be "narrating," just as in the books. That said – enjoy! _

NATHANIEL

John Mandrake looked up from his reams of paperwork with a sigh as he heard a light, respectful knocking on his study door. "Come in," he said wearily, running his hands through his cropped hair.

His assistant, Ms. Piper, stepped in briskly, all pursed lips and lowered eyebrows. She must have been extremely put out about something; Mandrake, however, was simply too busy to care, let alone inquire, what. Once inside, she halted.

"Yes? What is it?" Mandrake asked tersely, rubbing his aching eyes and wishing there were something, anything, to distract him from the ceaseless tedium of his job.

Ms. Piper looked as though she were about to swallow a handful of nails. "There is a young lady to see you, sir." She pronounced the word _lady_ as if to apply it in this case meant taking extreme liberties with the English language. She could only mean one person…

"The Deputy Police Chief?" he asked, apprehensively.

"Yes." A scowl. For some reason Piper had taken an intense dislike to Ms. Farrar; Mandrake simply couldn't see why...

"Send her in."

Piper turned on her heel and exited, closing the door forcefully, and leaving in her wake the calmness that came with the lateness of the hour.

If the night was calm, John Mandrake's stomach was anything but. He felt it squirming inside him like a living creature, and noticed also that his palms were sweating. Wiping them hastily on his pants, he shuffled the papers on his desk, looking for his pocket mirror. It wouldn't do to let Ms. Farrar see him looking anything but his best.

Where was that mirror? Cursing, he opened each drawer one by one, rifling through the contents, but caught no glimpse of its reflective surface. In desperation, he grabbed his scrying glass and peered at his face in its burnished exterior. It didn't work terribly well, but he seemed okay – he had terrible bags under his eyes from overwork, but he couldn't do anything about that. He angled the mirror downwards.

Damn.

Within the glass, the imp stirred; its grotesque baby face appeared, blocking out Mandrake's reflection. The imp stared back at him, pop-eyed; then a huge grin split its face. "Looking handsome, bud," he smirked. Mandrake hurled the glass across the room.

"BARTIMAEUS!" he howled. "I'm going to KILL YOU!"

A dark-skinned boy entered, carrying a bottle of cleaning solution. When he saw Mandrake he stopped short. "Hey," he said, the beginnings of a smile beginning to show at the corners of his mouth, "Looking g—"

"SHUT UP!"

"Whoa," Bartimaeus said. "Temper, temper, Mr. Touchy. I – on your orders, I might add – have been cleaning a certain indispensable apparatus in your bathroom. Man, that thing stinks! It's a bit of a comedown for a djinni who once spoke with Solomon, but have _I_ complained? No, sir. Suffer in silence, that's me. Plug your nose, and get the job done."

"_You_," Mandrake snarled, "don't have _ketchup_ all over you."

The djinni squinted. "Oh, is _that_ what that is? Hmm. Well, I wouldn't worry – I think you can easily pass those off as nice, classy bloodstains. No shame in those – in fact, they almost give the impression that you lead an interesting life."

"But what about the mustard stains?"

"Er… pus?"

Mandrake put his head in his hands. "_Why _did I have to wear _white_ today?" he wailed.

"So, Nat," Bartimaeus said, "why this sudden concern for your appearance? Go on, you can tell _me_. Is it because—" he stopped short. There was a knocking at the door. As one, human and djinni turned to look at it.

"Mr. Mandrake?" Ms. Piper's voice called. "Is everything all right? Ms. Farrar is waiting."

"_Aha_," said Bartimaeus. "Ms. Farrar, she said? _Ms_.? _Now_ I understand. Well, in that case, I'll just be going. Your girlfriend is at the door, and I'm sure you want to be alone with her. I know when I'm not wanted. I'll just go back to cleaning the loo."

"Mr. Mandrake?" Ms. Piper called again. "What's going on in there?"

"Bartimaeus," Mandrake said shakily, "if you value your life, for God's sake _help me_. This is all your fault."

"_My_ fault! It was _you_ who slobbered all down your front when you ate that sandwich!"

"You _always_ put too much condiments on!" The magician glared at him.

The knocking became louder. "_Mr. Mandrake_! Answer me, please!"

Mandrake looked desperately, almost pleadingly, at his servant. "Bartimaeus, I _charge_ you—"

The djinni sighed. "All right, all right. Keep your ketchup-slathered shirt on. I'll rummage around and see what I can find in here." He ripped open a few cardboard boxes, then regarded their gaudy contents with surprise. "Where did you get all these?"

"Costumes," Mandrake said distractedly. "Makepeace needed a place to store them."

"MR. MANDRAKE!" Piper shrieked.

"Be right with you!" Mandrake yelled back. "Would you _hurry up_?" he added to Bartimaeus.

The dark-skinned boy smiled at him, perfect teeth glinting whitely. "Don't worry – I've found just the thing. It'll really suit you."

"Great. Whatever it is, I'll wear it."

With a flourish, Bartimaeus produced a pink, fluffy bathrobe, and, before Mandrake could protest, wrapped the young magician in it. John Mandrake stared at him in stunned disbelief.

Bartimaeus winked cheerily back. "Anytime, mate," he said serenely, "anytime." Humming quietly to himself, he left.

Mandrake was spared a reply. With a crash and an agonizing splintering of fine wood, the door had been burst open.

"My, my, don't you look… fetching," Jane Farrar said icily, looking down at him over the top of her gorgeous nose.

_What did you think? Please review – getting feedback means so much to a budding writer (this is my second fanfic)!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed!_

NATHANIEL

There comes a time in every man's life, Mandrake thought, in which the situation seems that it cannot _possibly_ be worse. And it appeared to him that having to face Jane Farrar, who had scorn etched on each of her beautiful features, while himself wearing a _fluffy pink bathrobe_ over a shirt slathered in mustard and ketchup, was… well, the situation spoke for itself. In fact, how _could_ his predicament get worse?

Unbidden, an image sprang to mind of Bartimaeus sauntering in wearing the guise of… of… oh, God, it didn't bear _thinking_ about. He quelled the image with difficulty. Yes, the situation could _definitely_ be worse.

But things weren't that great right now, either.

He smiled weakly. "Um… hello. Nice… to see you?" He heard a badly stifled snort from the bathroom where the djinni was presumably listening. He would make Bartimaeus _pay_ for this…

She did not smile back, but simply strode authoritatively into the room with the brisk, sharp clatter of high heels on wood. She was staring at him with odd intensity as she approached; her sparkling eyes were boring into his in a fashion that increased his discomfort greatly. She did not halt her progress until their toes were touching and her face was inches from his.

She spoke softly. "Where is it?"

Mandrake swallowed. Her perfume, which had always had an uncannily powerful effect on him, was, at this distance, intoxicating him like a drug. She was _so_ close to him… He had a sudden, reckless impulse to put his arms around her. After all, why not? She was looking at him expectantly, and what other reason for that could there be? Then, distantly, as if from a past life, he realized that she had asked him a question… he couldn't remember what… He decided it was best to speak up, so he put his talent for carefully polished ministerial conversation to good use. "Huh?"

Her voice became slightly harsher. "_You_ know what I mean. What do you take me for? I know you have it here in this room, and there's _no use denying it_." She looked irritated.

Mandrake found that to see her beautiful features contorted with displeasure, however mild, was, at this distance, more than he could bear. Another lemony waft of pomegranates swirled seductively into his nostrils. His head swam… He felt that he would do anything for those red lips to smile at him, so he said swiftly, without having a clue what she was talking about: "Oh. _That_. Yeah, it's here."

She smiled. For Mandrake it was heaven. "_Where_?"

"What does it matter?" he said, smiling back at her.

Her eyebrows lifted. "Excuse me?"

Mandrake smiled wider. "_We're_ here. Together. Just the two of us." Her hair was so dark, so shiny… he had another impulse to reach out and stroke it. No, more than an impulse – a decision. He leaned forward, reached out – just as Jane Farrar whirled away.

"_Hopeless_," she snarled, stalking towards the door, "Absolutely _hopeless_."

But Mandrake, who had overbalanced, fallen forward with arms swinging wildly, tripped over a chair, caught his fluffy bathrobe on the desk corner, and crashed to the floor, did not hear her.

Once at the door, she turned. "I'll be back," she said, eyes iron cold, "and I expect you-know-what to be in my possession before the week is out." With these parting words, she took her leave.

Sprawled face-first amid the wreckage of his chair, Mandrake could only stare weakly after her.

o o o

After waiting a tactful fifteen seconds, Bartimaeus chose to make his presence known. Shutting the lavatory door behind him, he looked down at Mandrake sadly. "A shame," he said quietly, "a crying shame."

Mandrake didn't answer. He was still staring at the spot where Jane Farrar had disappeared.

"Your beautiful, beautiful dressing gown," Bartimaeus said, shaking his head. "Ripped to shreds."

_Author: Please take a few seconds of your time to review…Thanks!_


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